Every Wednesday in Sebastopol, California,a small group of men meetaround an outdoor fireat the foot of a 100 year old Gravenstein apple tree

We are witnessed and inspired by this age-old treesome branches lost to storm or timesome covered with cankers and gallsa trunk hollowed to a twisted shell by fire and little creaturesyet still claiming its sacred ground

And upon the rising of the sun seasonits blood stirsbuds burst into exquisite white blossomsand it emerges as a brideready to renew her vows to life once againwhen the bees grant their blessing

Then upon the rising of the moon seasonit settles into awe and gratitudeknowing that its union, unlike the salmon’s,will not claim its lifeand silently revels in the dreamsof what is yet to come_____________________________________

A Common ManNicholas Sparks

I am nothing special,of this I am sure.

I am a common man with common thoughts,and I've led a common life.

There are no monuments dedicated to me,and my name will soon be forgotten.

But I've loved anotherwith all my heart and soul,And to methis has always beenenough._________

The GashWilliam Everson

To covet and resist for years,and then to succumb,is a fearsome thing.All you craved and deniedAt last possesses you.You give yourselfWholly to its power;and its presence,Invading your soul, stupefiesWith its solace and terror.There is nothing so humblingas acceptance.I sense the mushrooms in the night,Tearing their wayup through loose soil,Brutal as all birth.And I bend my head,And cup my mouth onthe gash of everything I craved,And am ravaged with joy.____________________

In Search of the Very First SeedJeff Rooney(written before a Spring Men's Fire ritual the first year)

It is time to tend the garden again.It is wise not to wait too long.I have learned my lesson,But it wasn’t easy!For I have been bloodied clearing the bramble of neglect.

Sometimes I think I know what I am doingand the garden laughs, “Ha you silly soul!”I was lulled by the pause of darknessI grew fat and lost my wayBut the garden is still there... waiting.

It is time to tend the garden again.Its a dirty, stinky... lovely job.I’d get help but everyone has their own garden to tend.I thought my garden was a mess, then I saw othersand had to reconsider.

It is time to tend the garden again.I am in search of the very first seed -I think it came from the vapor like everything else.I wonder - is LIFE a specialty of condensation?I think my garden will teach me.____________________________________

True NorthDoug VonKoss

That other compass you bought in the city is no good to you now.Before darkness comes give it away.

Then, in the gathering dusk, some quiet part of you may begin to open.

Call it your inner compass rose.

Call it the home of your true north, as constant as Polaris in the night sky.

If there is an aroma faint in the evening breeze take a grateful breath and move in that direction.

Your road will be there, glowing in the moonlight.

Say, "Thank you for this blossom."

Your compass rose has opened. You must go north.________________

The Man WatchingRainer Maria Rilke

I can tell by the way the trees beat, afterso many dull days, on my worried windowpanesthat a storm is coming,and I hear the far-off fields say thingsI can’t bear without a friend,I can’t love without a sister.

The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives onacross the woods and across time,and the world looks as if it had no age:the landscape like a line in the psalm book,is seriousness and weight and eternity.

What we choose to fight is so tiny!What fights with us is so great!If only we would let ourselves be dominatedas things do by some immense storm,we would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win it’s with small things,and the triumph itself makes us small.What is extraordinary and eternaldoes not want to be bent by us.I mean the Angel who appearedto the wrestlers of the Old Testament:when the wrestlers’ sinewsgrew long like metal strings,he felt them under his fingerslike chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel(who often simply declined the fight)went away proud and strengthenedand great from that harsh hand,that kneaded him as if to change his shape.Winning does not tempt that man.This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,by constantly greater beings.________________

Real MenScott DuRoff(Dedicated to the men of The Men's Fire)The wood pileFull of twistedUn-splittablePieces too longToo bigToo knotty forShallow menMen worried aboutHow they lookWhat car they driveOr if they sing off key.This pile of woodyDiscards can onlyBe tamed by brave menThat show up in the rainMen who laughAt themselvesCompassionatelyWhen the splitting maulMisses its mark.Chopping and stackingLaughing and huggingBringing order toDisorder. These menKnow the blessingsOf Brotherhood.These men areReal Men.________________

Beautiful Empty PagesHafiz

What kind of workCan I do in this world?Who would be kind enoughto hire an old holy Bum,One with a great reputationFor loving the charmsOf the lawlessAnd the wild artists and the lewd?Maybe I could become a poet.Maybe the BelovedWill make my love so PureThat He will come to sit uponAll my Beautiful empty pages.And when you come to look at them,He might kick youWith His Beautiful Divine Foot._____________________

FATHER EARTH Clarissa Pinkola Estes

There is a two-million year old manNo one knows.They cut into his riversPeeled wide pieces of hideFrom his legsLeft scorch marksOn his buttocks.He did not cry out.No matter what they did, he held firm.Now he raises his stabbed handsand whispers that we can heal him yet.We begin the bandages,The rolls of gauze,The unguents, the gut,The needle, the grafts.We slowly, carefully turn his bodyFace up,And under him,His lifelong lover, the old woman,Is perfect and unmarkedHe has laid uponHis two-million year old womanAll this time, protecting herWith his old back, his old scarred back.And the soil beneath herIs black with her tears.____________________

FromMany Winters Nancy WoodCollected from the Pueblo Elders

You Are a Man

When I was youngI did not know anythingAlthough I was very tall,I had never grown.

So one day I went to the mountainTo die a little death.This is the way of my peopleIn order to become purified.

My ears heard only silence and soThe river drowned me in song.My hands stopped the air and soThe fire fed upon me.

At last I was reduced to nothing.Then one day I woke up.Speak the truth said the windAnd I said I am afraid.

See the reason said the sunAnd I saw my village changing.Listen to the music said the riverAnd I heard my people laughing.

Feel the warmth said the fireAnd I held my children in my arms.Know what you are said the spiritYou are a man.________________________

I Have Walked Along Many Roads Antonio Machado (translated by Robert Bly) I have walked along many roads,and opened paths through brush,I have sailed over a hundred seasand tied up on a hundred shores.

and academics in offstage clotheswho watch, say nothing, and thinkthey know, because they do not drink winein the ordinary bars.

Evil men who walk aroundpolluting the earth. . .

And everywhere I’ve been I’ve seenmen who dance and play,when they can, and workthe few inches of ground they have.

If they turn up somewhere,they never ask where they are.When they take trips, they rideon the backs of old mules.

They don’t know how to hurry,not even on holidays.They drink wine, if there is some,if not, cool water.

These men are the good ones,who love, work, walk and dream.And on a day no different from the restthey lie down beneath the earth.________________________

The JourneyDavid Whyte

Above the mountainsthe geese turn intothe light again

Painting theirblack silhouetteson an open sky.

Sometimes everythinghas to beinscribed acrossthe heavens

so you can findthe one linealready writteninside you.

Sometimes it takesa great skyto find thatfirst, bright

and indescribablewedge of freedomin your own heart.

Sometimes withthe bones of the blacksticks left when the firehas gone out

someone has writtensomething newin the ashes of your life.

You are not leaving.Even as the light fades quickly now,you are arriving.________________________

The Guest HouseMevlana Jelaluddin (Rumi)

This being human is a guest house.Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,some momentary awareness comesas an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,who violently sweep your houseempty of its furniture,still, treat each guest honorably.He may be clearing you outfor some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,meet them at the door laughing,and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,because each has been sentas a guide from beyond.__________________________

One Bit of DifferenceScott DuRoff What would happenIf you took the chance andReally let me see you?

Not your competent selfStrutting aboutAs if there was nothing wrong,No stone of grief upon your chest,No tears of sorrowWelled up behind those eyes.

I couldn’t handle it.You’re sure I couldn’t.I wouldn’t be a safe harborFor your long hidden fears.

How could I be?I don’t really know you,Couldn’t know you,Couldn’t love you enoughTo see myself in you.

And what if I did see you?Would it matter?Does the light of compassionReally make one bit of difference?

All I know is thatIt is a sad and lonely beauty,That graces the heart unseen.

Kick a hole in the old rottenFence between us,And pull me through.

I am hereOn the other side,Waiting for you._____________________

Sacred WineGreg Kimura

Sit with the painin your heart, he said.Hold it like a sacred winein a golden cup.

The wine may break youand if it does, let it.To be human is to be broken,and only from brokenness canone be healed.

The ancestors say:the world is full of pain,and each is allotted a portion.

If you do not carry your share,then others are forcedto carry it for you,And the suffering you bringto the world is your sin,

But the suffering you bringto yourself will be your hell.Sit with the painin your heart, he said.

Hold it therelike a sacred winein a golden cup.________________________

A PRAYER TO INVOKE THE RAINSGary Federico

AS WE GATHER HERE,AROUND, IN THIS CIRCLE,WE ASK FROM OUR HEARTS,MIND, AND SOULS,TO BRING THE CLEANSING WATERS TO THE LAND. THAT THE LAND WE OCCUPYMAY HAVE ITS BALANCE RESTORED.AND IN THE MINDFULNESSOF ASKING FOR THE RAINS TO COME,TO COME IN A HEALTHY ABUNDANCE;WE HAVE GRIEF IN OUR HEARTS.WE HAVE GRIEF FOR THE MISUSE, DONE BY US HUMANS, TO THE BALANCE ON THIS PLANET.WE ARE SADDENED BY OUR RECKLESSNESS.AND IN OUR ASKING,WE BEGIN TO REALIZETHAT WE NEED TO HONOR THE EARTH.TO HONOR THE EARTH:OF ALL ITS GRANDEUR,OF ALL ITS BEAUTY,OF ALL ITS INTRICATE LIFE FORMS,AND OF ALL ITS ECOSYSTEMS, WHICH WE HUMANS ARE VERY MUCH A PART OF YOUR WHOLENESS.OF ALL YOUR ENDURANCE,OF ALL YOUR MAGIC,OF ALL YOUR MYSTERY,OF ALL YOUR DIVERSE, AND CREATIVE MANIFESTATIONS.WITH YOUR WATERS WE DRINK.WITH YOUR WATERS WE ARE CLEANSED.WITH YOUR WATERS WE HAVE LIFE.WE HAVE NEVER ENOUGH GRATITUDEFOR ALL THE ELEMENTS OF THE EARTH:THE AIR, THE LAND, THE FIRE, AND THE WATER.BY THE GENEROSITY OF THE SUN, FROM THE OCEANS, SKY, TO LAND, YOUR TEARS ARE OUR TEARS, YOUR SWEAT IS OUR SWEAT.WE ARE PART OF YOU, AND YOU EMBODY US.___________________________

Red BrocadeNaomi Shihab Nye

The Arabs used to sayWhen a stranger appears at your door,feed him for three daysbefore asking who he is,where he's come from,where he's headed.That way, he'll have strength enoughto answer.Or, by then you'll be such good friendsyou don't care.

No, I was not busy when you came!I was not preparing to be busy.That's the armor everyone put onto pretend they had a purposein the world.

I refuse to be claimed.Your plate is waiting.We will snip fresh mintinto your tea.___________

Morning PrayerTaylor Lampson

May the light of the new dayShine upon my soul and illuminate my essenceAs the rising sun shines forth upon the earth

May I be in communion with my true selfAnd honor the sacred flame of my being

May my presence be a sanctuaryFor those around me

May I be gentle with my heart andHonor the flame within.___________________________

Wilderness Carl Sandburg

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.______________________